


Summer superstar

by letraspal



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adaptation, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Baz is a movie superstar, E-mail, Falling In Love, First Date, First Kiss, Getting Together, Lucy is alive, M/M, Mage still a little shit, Mutual Pining, Paparazzi, Politcs, Retelling, Shepard bisexual and proud, Simon bisexual mess, Simon loves poetry, Slow Romance, Summer Love, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, based on this is what happy looks like, but now is gay, could be a slow burn if this girl doesn't have a meltdown while doing this adaptation hahaha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letraspal/pseuds/letraspal
Summary: When teenage movie star Baz Pitch accidentally sends small town boy Simon Snow an email about his pet pig, the two seventeen-year-olds strike up a witty and unforgettable correspondence, discussing everything under the sun, except for names or backgrounds.Then Baz finds out that Simon’s Maine hometown is the perfect location for his latest film, and he decides to take their pen pal relationship from online to in-person. But can a star as famous as Pitch really start a relationship with a normal – probably straight- boy like Simon? And why does he want to avoid the media's spotlight at all costs?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This Snowbaz fic is an adaptation of the original story “This is what happy looks like” by Jennifer E. Smith.

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:18 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: (no subject)

**Hey, we’re running pretty behind here. Any chance you could walk Wilbur for me tonight?**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:24 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**I think you have the wrong e-mail address. But since I’m a dog owner too, and I don’t want poor Wilbur to be stranded, I thought I’d write back and let you know…**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:33 PM.

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Ah, sorry about that. New phone, so I’m typing in the address. Looks like I miss a number. Wilbur and I both thank you. (And by the way, he’s actually a pig.)**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:34 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**A pig!!!!! What kind of pig goes for walks?**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:36 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**The very sophisticated kind, of course. He even has his own leash.**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:42 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Some pig!**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:45 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Oh, yeah. He’s terrific! Radiant! Humble!**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 10:47 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Wow, a pig owner and bookworm… You must be either a farmer or a librarian.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:01 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Wow you’re a wizard or something? I dabble in both.**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:03 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Seriously?**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:04 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**To be clear, not really. But what about you?**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:05 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**I’m neither a farmer nor a librarian.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:11 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Let me guess then.**

**You’re an underemployed dogwalker who’s been sitting by the computer in the hope that someone might ask you to walk something more exciting than a poodle?**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:12 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Bingo!!!! And I guess this is my lucky day…**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:13 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Really, though. What’s your deal?**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:14 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**uh… asks the random stranger from the Internet.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:15 PM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**… says the one who’s still writing back.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:17 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Have you considered that may I am an online predator?**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:18 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**No. You’re not.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:19 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**How do you know?**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:24 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Easy. You quoted Charlotte’s Web.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:26 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**So did you… Does that mean you’re not a creepy old Internet predator using your pet pig as an excuse to stalk 16-year-old boys?**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:27 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Busted.**

**No, I’m only seventeen, which I think lands me pretty solidly outside of creepy-old-man territory.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:31 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Fair enough. Though, unfortunately, I’m still not available to walk Wilbur tonight. And even if I was, you’d probably have to find someone a little bit closer, since I doubt you live anywhere near me.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:33 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**How do you know?**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:38 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**I’m from Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:39 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Oh, then I guess you’re right. I’m from Middle-of-Everything, California.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:40 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Lucky duck.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:42 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Lucky pig, actually.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:43 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Right. Makes sense.**

**Anyway, weren’t you running behind with something?**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:44 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Yeah, I should probably be getting back to it…**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:48 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Okay. Nice talking to you. And sorry I couldn’t come through for Wilbur.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:51 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**He’ll forgive you, I’m sure. He’s a very magnanimous pig.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:55 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**I’m relieved to hear that.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:57 PM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Hey, S?**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Thursday, March 7, 2013 11:58 PM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Yes… B?**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:01 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**What if I e-mail you again tomorrow?**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:02 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Well, I’m not exactly in the habit of trolling the Internet for pen pals…**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:03 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**But? I feel there is a but.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:04 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**But I’m also terrible at goodbyes**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:05 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Okay then.**

**So, what do you think if I’ll just say hello again instead?**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:07 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Could work, we’ll take it from there.**

**I’ll say: Good morning!**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:08 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**But it’s not morning.**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:09 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**It is in Maine.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:10 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Maine, right. Then: Howdy!**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:12 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**How very western of you.**

**Greetings!**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:13 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Are you an alien invader?**

**Χαιρετίσματα**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:14 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**You definitely just looked that one up.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:15 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**You don’t think I’m proficient in Greek?**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:17 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**I don't know Greek and if I did I think I would need more proof than that.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:19 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Fair enough. Then, salutations! (That one was from Wilbur, of course.)**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:20 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Of course. That’s what I thought.**

**Until tomorrow…**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:21 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Wait, is that your way of saying good-bye without _really_ saying goodbye?**

* * *

From: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:24 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject).

**Actually, I’m not sure I’m quite finished saying _hello_ yet.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:25 AM

To: Ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Me neither. Hello, S.**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:27 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Hi, B.**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:30 AM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**And good morning.**

* * *

From: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:31 AM

To: BGP224@icloud.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**You said it's not morning yet in California**

* * *

From: BGP224@icloud.com

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:33 AM

To: ssnow21@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: (no subject)

**Yes, but I have a feeling it will be... good, I mean.**

* * *


	2. ONE: MILKSHAKE MESS

* * *

_From:_ BGP224@icloud.com

_Sent:_ Saturday, June 8, 2013 12:42 PM

_To:_ ssnow21@hotmail.com

_Subject:_ Re: hi

**Don’t you hate it when people use smiley faces in their e-mails?**

* * *

_From:_ ssnow21@hotmail.com

_Sent:_ Saturday, June 8, 2013 12:59 PM

_To:_ BGP224@icloud.com

_Subject:_ not really

**(:**

* * *

_From:_ BGP224@icloud.com

_Sent:_ Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:04 PM

_To:_ ssnow21@hotmail.com

_Subject:_ Re: not really

**I’m going to ignore that.**

**I read once that in Russia, they usually end the salutation of a letter with an exclamation point. Isn’t that funny? It must always seem like they’re shouting at each other. Or that they’re really surprised to find themselves in touch.**

* * *

  
_From:_ ssnow21@hotmail.com

_Sent:_ Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:07 PM

_To:_ BGP224@icloud.com

_Subject_ : not a chance

**Or maybe they’re just really happy to be writing to that person…**

**Like I am: !**

* * *

_From:_ BGP224@icloud.com

_Sent:_ Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:11 PM

_To:_ ssnow21@hotmail.com

_Subject:_ Re: not a chance

**Well, thank you. But that’s not what happy looks like.**

* * *

_From:_ ssnow21@hotmail.com

_Sent:_ Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:12 PM

_To:_ BGP224@icloud.com

_Subject:_ Re: not a chance

**What does it look like, then?**

* * *

_From:_ BGP224@icloud.com

_Sent:_ Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:18 PM

_To:_ ssnow21@hotmail.com

_Subject:_ what happy looks like

**Sunrises over a harbor. Ice cream on a hot day. Hot cocoa in a cold day. The sound of the waves. Curl up in a couch. Evening strolls. Great movies. Thunderstorms. The soft sound of a violin. Salt and vinegar chips. Fridays. Saturdays. Wednesdays, sometimes. Sticking your toes in the water. Nice fabrics over your skin. Books. Poetry and fall hopelessly in love… The absence of smiley faces in an e-mail.**

**What does it look like to you?**

* * *

**SIMON**

It was not all that different from the circus, and it came to town in much the same way. Only instead of elephants and giraffes, there were cameras and microphones. Instead of clowns and cages and tightropes, there were production assistants and trailers and yards upon yards of thick cables.

There was a sense of magic in the way it appeared as if from nowhere, cropping up so quickly that even those who had been expecting it were taken by surprise. And as the people of Watford showed up to watch, even the most jaded members of the film crew couldn’t help feeling a slight shiver of anticipation, a low current of electricity that seemed to pulse through the town.

They were used to filming in locations like Los Angeles and New York, cities where the locals gave them a wide berth, grumbling about the traffic and the disappearance of parking spots. There were places in the world where a movie shoot was nothing more than a nuisance, a bothersome interruption of real life.

But Watford, Maine, was not one of them.

It was June, so the crowds that had gathered to watch the men unload the trucks were fairly large. The size of the town rose and fell like the tides. Through the winter, the full-timers rattled around the empty shops, bundled against the frost coming off the water. But as soon as summer rolled around, the population swelled to four or five times its usual size, a stream of tourists once again filling the gift shops and cottages and B&Bs that lined the coast.

Watford was like a great hibernating bear, dozing through the long winters before coming back to life again at the same time each year.

Most everyone in town waited eagerly for Memorial Day, when the seasons clicked forward and the usual three-month frenzy of boaters and fishermen and honeymooners and vacationers invaded. But Simon Snow had always dreaded it, and now, as he tried to pick his way through the thick knots of people in the village square, he was reminded of why. In the off-season, the town was his. But on this blisteringly hot day at the start of June, it belonged to strangers again.

And this summer would be worse than ever.

Because this summer, there would be a movie too.

Simon hurried past the gawking tourists and away from the trailers, which now lined the harbor road like a gypsy caravan. There was a sharp tang of salt in the air, and the smell of frying fish was already drifting out of the town’s oldest restaurant, the Lobster Pot. Its owner, Ebb Petty, was leaning against the doorframe, her blue eyes trained on the flurry of activity down the street.

“Kind of crazy, huh?” she said, and Simon paused to follow her gaze. As they watched, a long black limo glided up to the main production tent, followed by a van and two motorcycles. “And now photographers too,” she muttered.

Simon couldn’t help frowning as she watched the explosion of flashes that accompanied the opening of the limo door.

Ebb sighed. “All I can say is, they better eat a _lot_ of lobster.”

“And ice cream,” Simon added.

“Right,” she said, nodding. “And ice cream too.”

By the time he reached the little yellow shop with the green awning that read _SPRINKLES_ in faded letters, Simon was already ten minutes late. But he didn’t have to worry; the only person inside was Shepard—his very best friend and the world’s very worst employee—who was hunched over the ice-cream counter, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

“Can you _believe_ we’re stuck in here today?” he asked as Simon walked in, the bell above the door jangling.

The inside of the shop was wonderfully cool and smelled like spun sugar, and as always, there was something about it that made the years recede for Simon, peeling them back one at a time like the layers of an onion. He had been only four when he and her mom moved here, and after the long drive up from Washington, D.C.—the car heavy because of all they’d taken with them and silent because of all they had not— they’d stopped in town to ask for directions to the cottage they’d rented for the summer. Mom had been in a rush, eager to finish the journey that had started well before the ten-hour drive. But Simon had walked right through the front door and pushed his freckled nose against the domed glass, and so his first memory of their new life would always be the black-and-white tiles, the cool air on his face, and the sweet taste of cherry sherbet.

Now he ducked beneath the counter and grabbed an apron from the hook. “Trust me,” he said to Shep, “you don’t want to be out there right now. It’s a total zoo.”

“Of course, it is,” he said, twisting around. “This is probably the biggest thing that’s ever happened here,” Shepard was saying, his eyes on fire. “It would be like something out of the movies if it wasn’t _literally_ a movie.” He grabbed the magazine and held it up. “And it isn’t some little dinky arthouse film either. I mean, there are huge stars in this thing. The gorgeous Agatha Wellbelove and Baz Pitch. The _Baz Pitch_. Here for a whole month.”

Simon squinted at the photo being dangled in front of him, which showed a face he’d seen a thousand times before, a good-looking dark-haired guy with even darker sunglasses, scowling as he muscled his way through a group of photographers. He knew he was right around their age, but there was something about him that made him seem older.

Simon tried to picture him here in Watford, dodging paparazzi, signing autographs, chatting with his beautiful costar between takes, but he couldn’t seem to make his imagination cooperate in that way.

“Everyone thinks he and Agatha are dating, or will be soon,” Shep said. “But you never know. They’re taking their time, maybe girls are not his type. Perhaps small-town boys, if we’re lucky.”

Simon avoided eye contact with his friend and laugh. Being bisexual was kind of a new thing for him and even when Shepard was very natural about it, he wasn't at that point of confident yet.

“Do you think he’ll come in here at all?”

“There are only like twelve shops in the whole town,” Simon said. “So the odds are probably in _your_ favor.”

Shepard watched as he began rinsing the ice-cream scoops in the sink. “How can you not care about this stuff at all?” he asked. “It’s exciting.”

“It’s a pain,” Simon said without looking up.

“It’s good for business.”

“It’s like a carnival.”

“Exactly,” Shepard said, looking triumphant. “And carnivals are FUN.”

“Not if you hate roller coasters.”

“Well, you’re stuck on this one whether you like it or not,” Shep said with a laugh. “So you better buckle up.”

Mornings were always quiet at the shop; the real rush didn’t start until after lunchtime, but because the town was so busy today, a few people trickled in to buy bags of penny candy from the jars on the shelves, or to cool off with an early cone.

Just before the end of his shift, Simon was helping a little boy pick out a flavor while Shep made a chocolate milkshake for his mother, who was busy on her cell phone.

“What about mint chip?” Simon suggested, leaning over the cool glass as the boy— probably no more than three years old—stood on his tiptoes in an effort to survey the various flavors. “Or cookie dough?”

He shook his head, his hair falling across his eyes. “I want pig.”

“Pink?”

“Pig,” he said again, but less certainly.

“Cherry?” Simon asked, pointing at the pink container, and the boy nodded.

“Pigs are pink,” he explained to him as he scooped some into a small cup for him.

“That’s true,” he said, handing him the cup. But his mind was already elsewhere; he was thinking about an e-mail he’d gotten a couple weeks ago from—well, he didn’t quite know who it was from; not really, anyway. But it had been about his pig, Wilbur, who had apparently, to his horror, gotten hold of a hot dog during a barbeque.

**_My pig_** , the e-mail had read, **_is now officially a cannibal._**

**_That’s okay_** , Simon had written back ** _. I’d be surprised if there was any real meat in that hot dog at all._**

This had been followed by a lengthy exchange about what exactly was in hot dogs, which had then, of course, spun off into other topics, from favorite foods to best holiday meals, and before he knew it, the clock was showing that it was nearly two in the morning. Once again, they’d managed to talk about everything without really talking about anything at all, and once again, Simon had stayed up way too late.

But it was worth it.

Even now, he could feel himself smiling at the memory of those e-mails, which felt as real and honest as any conversation he’d ever had face-to-face. He was practically on California time now, staying up late to wait for his address to appear on his screen, his thoughts constantly drifting across the country to the other coast. He knew it was ridiculous. They didn’t even know each other’s names. But the morning after that first e-mail went astray, he’d woken up to find another note from him.

**_Good morning, S_** , he’d written. **_It’s late here, and I just got home to find Wilbur asleep in my closet. He generally stays in the laundry room when I’m out, but his “dogwalker” must have forgotten to shut the gate. If you’d been nearby, I’m sure you’d have done a much better job…_**

Simon had only just gotten out of bed, and he sat there at his desk with the morning light streaming in through the window, blinking and yawning and smiling without quite knowing why. He closed his eyes. Was there any better way to greet the day?

Sitting there, thinking back to the previous night’s correspondence, he’d felt a rush of exhilaration. And though it seemed odd that he still didn’t know his name, something kept hin from asking. Those two little words, he knew, would inevitably set off a chain reaction: first Google, then Facebook, then Twitter, and on and on, mining the twists and turns of the Internet until all the mystery had been wrung out of the thing.

Maybe the facts weren’t as important as the rest of it: this feeling of anticipation as his fingers hovered over the keyboard, or the way the lingering question mark that had pulsed inside his all night had been so quickly replaced by an exclamation point at the sight of his e-mail. Maybe there was something safe in the not knowing, something that made it feel like all the mundane questions you were usually required to ask were not all that important after all.

He considered the screen for another moment, then lowered his hands to the keys.

**_Dear B_** , he’d written, and so it had gone. Theirs was a partnership of details rather than facts. And the details were the best part. Simon knew, for example, that BGP—as he’d taken to thinking of him—once cut open his forehead while attempting to jump off the roof of his family’s car as a kid.

Another time, he’d pretended to drown in a neighbor’s pool, and then scared the hell out of everyone when they tried to rescue him. He liked to draw buildings—high-rises and brownstones and skyscrapers with rows upon rows of windows—and when he was anxious, he’d sketch out entire cities. He played the violin. He wanted to live in London someday. The only thing he could cook was grilled cheese sandwiches. He hated e-mailing most people, but not him.

**_Are you any good at keeping secrets?_** he’d written to him once, because it was something Simon felt was important to know. It seemed to Simon that you could tell a lot about someone by the way they carried a secret—by how safe they kept it, how soon they told, the way they acted when they were trying to keep it from spilling out.

**_Yes,_** he’d replied. **_Are you?_**

**_Yes,_** he’d said simply, and they left it at that.

All his life, secrets had been things that were heavy and burdensome. But this? This was different. It was like a bubble inside him, light and buoyant and fizzy enough to make him feel like he was floating through each day.

It had been only three months since that first e-mail, but it felt like much longer. If Mom noticed a difference, he didn’t say anything. If Shepard thought he was acting funny, he made no mention of it. The only person who could probably tell was the one on the other end of all those e-mails.

Now he found himself grinning at the cup of pink ice cream as he handed it to the boy. Behind him, there was a loud click and a sputter, followed by a thick glugging sound, and when Simon spun to see what was happening, it was to find the aftermath of a chocolate milkshake explosion. It was everywhere, on the walls and the counter and the floor, but mostly all over Shepard, who blinked twice, then wiped his face with the back of her arm. His entire shirt was soaked with chocolate, and there was more of it stuck in his hair. His face split into a grin. “Think Baz Pitch would like this look?”

Simon laughed. “Who doesn’t like chocolate milkshakes?”

The boy’s mother had lowered her cell phone, her mouth open, but now she dug for her wallet and placed a few bills on the counter. “I think we’ll just take the ice cream,” she said, shepherding her son out the front door, glancing back only once at Shepard, who was still dripping.

“More for us,” Shep said, and they began to laugh all over again.

By the time they’d gotten the mess cleaned up, Simon’s shift was almost over.

Shep glanced up at the clock, then down at his shirt. “Lucky you. I’ve got two more hours to stand around looking like something that crawled out of Willy Wonka’s factory.”

“I’ve got a tank top on underneath,” Simon said, peeling off her blue T-shirt and handing it over. “Wear mine.”

“Thanks,” Shep muttered, ducking into the tiny bathroom near the freezers in the back of the store. “I think I’ve even got chocolate in my ears.”

“It’ll help you survive the noise when things start getting busy,” Simon called back.

“Want me to wait with you till Penny gets here? I can be late for Mom’s.”

“That’s okay,” Shep said, and when he emerged again, he was wearing Simon’s shirt as if it were a slim fit t-shirt. “It’s a little tight,” he admitted pulling down, he was taller than Simon. “But I’ll make it work. I can stop by the shop when I’m done to give it back.”

“Great,” Simon said. “See you then.”

“Hey,” Shep called, just as Simon was about to walk out the door, his shoulders now bare except for the straps of his tank top. “Sunscreen?”

“I’m fine,” he said. He never gets really sunburnt; he usually gets a golden tan that make his moles and freckles show way more.

Outside, Simon paused to study the movie set being assembled down the street. There was less of a crowd now; people must have grown tired of watching the teams of men in black shirts rushing around with heavy trunks of equipment. But just as he was about to head up toward the gift shop, he noticed a tall guy in a Dodgers cap approaching the ice-cream parlor.

His head was low and his hands were in his pockets, but everything about his casual posture suggested a kind of effort; he was trying so hard to blend in that he ended up sticking out all the more. Part of him was thinking that he could be anyone— he was, after all, just a boy, really—but he knew immediately that he wasn’t. He knew exactly who he was. There was something too sharply defined about him, like he was walking across a billboard or a stage rather than a small street in Maine. The whole thing was oddly surreal, and for a moment, Simon could almost see the magic in it; he could almost understand why someone might fall under his spell.

When he was just a few feet away from him, he glanced up, and he was startled by his eyes, a grey so deep he’d always half assumed they were touched up in the magazines. But even from beneath the brim of his cap, they were penetrating, and he pulled in a sharp breath as they landed on his briefly before sliding over to the awning of the shop.

The thought occurred to him with surprising force: _He’s sad_.

He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he was suddenly certain that it was true. Underneath all the rest of it—an unexpected nervousness, a hint of caution, a bit of wariness—there was also a

sadness so deep it startled him. It was there in his eyes, which were so much older than the rest of him, and in the practiced blankness of his gaze.

He’d read about him, of course, and seemed to recall that he wasn’t one of those celebrities always in and out of rehab. As far as he knew, he didn’t have financial troubles or nightmare parents. He hadn’t been brought up as one of those poor child stars either, his mother’s family – the Pitch - was _important_ dynasty as long as he knew; his big break had happened only a couple of years ago. He’d heard he celebrated his sixteenth birthday by flying the entire cast of his last movie to Switzerland to go skiing in the Alps. And he’d been linked to several of the most sought-after young actresses in Hollywood.

There was no reason Baz Pitch should be sad.

_But he is_ , Simon thought.

He’d come to a stop outside the ice-cream parlor and seemed to be weighing something as he stood there. To his surprise, his eyes drifted over to him one more time, and he smiled reflexively. But he only gazed at him for a long moment, his face unchanged beneath the low brim of his cap, and the smile slid from him face again.

As he watched, he squared his shoulders and stepped up to the door of the shop, and Simon’s eyes caught Shep’s through the window. He mouthed something that Simon couldn’t make out, his face a picture of disbelief, and then turned his attention back to the entrance as the bell rang out and Baz Pitch made his way inside.

It was only then that the photographers appeared, seemingly from nowhere, six of them, with enormous black cameras and bags strung over their shoulders, each of them rushing to press against the window, where they began to snap photos with frantic intensity. From inside the store, Baz Pitch didn’t even turn around.

Simon stood there for another moment, his eyes flicking between the window, where Shepard was smiling behind the counter as he approached, and the photographers, who were jostling one another for better angles. Those milling around in the streets nearby started to drift closer, drawn to the scene by some sort of magnetic pull, an irresistible mixture of celebrity and spectacle. But as the crowd grew, Simon took a few steps backward, making his escape around the side of the building before anyone could notice he was gone.


End file.
